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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757065">White Lilacs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazanetz/pseuds/kazanetz'>kazanetz</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally, Historical RPF, Royalty RPF, Russian Royalty RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Dark, Edwardian Period, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Historical Figures, Historical Inaccuracy, My First AO3 Post, OTMA Focused, Period Typical Attitudes, Sisters, World War I</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:41:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757065</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazanetz/pseuds/kazanetz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As revolution in Russia draws nearer, the Tsar's children are sent away from the city and to the Crimea in the hopes that they will be spared any danger. But Maria, the Tsar's third daughter, is not quite convinced.<br/>When the world falls from under her, will she be able to keep her footing or will she let the darkness swallow her too?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alix of Hesse | Alexandra Feodorovna/Nikolay Alexandrovich Romanov | Nicholas II of Russia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have literally never written anything longer than a page so hopefully I'll be able to give this thing some structure but if not I hope that you at least enjoy reading my self-indulgent history fanfic.<br/>Also sorry for the slow start, I promise it'll pick up!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cold, that is all I can think of. We stand shivering in the station at Tsarskoe Selo, and though it is clear that my siblings are suffering greatly from it they do not complain. </p><p>Anastasia and I are the only ones still free of measles and so we are allowed to huddle together against one of the giant windows which, when I think of it, probably makes it worse. She even suggests stacking the suitcases around us to help keep away some of the chill but I decide against it. “It is real Russian cold,” I say, “and I intend to feel it for as long as I can.”</p><p>She laughs. “You’ll get nothing out of it but illness.” I know that she is right, but I also know that it is likely we will never be back to the Alexander Palace again if what Mama told me is true.</p><p>“At least there is Livadia at the other end of all this.”</p><p>At that, another grin comes across her pale face and she leans in so that the others won’t hear. “Monsieur Gilliard will have to let us do as we like, without Papa or Mama or anyone to make us!”</p><p>I groan. “Please just do as he says Nastya. It will be easier for everyone.”</p><p>She begins to reply but is drowned out by the familiar clacking of our train as it finally draws into the station. The air becomes metallic and the glistening of the golden imperial eagles beside each window catches my eye, though as I help to gather our luggage I can’t help but wonder how long they will remain fixed there. </p><p>We board the car that contains our sleeping compartments so that Olga, Tatiana, and Alexei can be put to bed as quickly as possible. Tatiana shakes as she carefully steps up from the platform and when she turns back for an instant, I can see tears carving their way down her tired face. The grey of her eyes seems darker, accentuated by the deep purple surrounding them. She always has been somewhat frail and the measles has made it exponentially worse. As I step up myself, I quickly pray that she and the rest of them might survive the journey. Though as Papa always says, it is all up to God in the end.</p><p>As always, I share a sleeping compartment with Anastasia. After a short debate we decide that unpacking our suitcases for the two-day trip will be a waste of time, she argues that Mama is not here to critique our laziness and I am forced to agree. She's awfully difficult to fight back against.</p><p>I throw my knitted hat and scarf onto my bed once I’ve sorted my suitcase and almost fall against the green, padded wall as the train jolts into movement again. I right myself quickly and rush to open the curtains and get a last glimpse of the park as we glide away from it. Trees and buildings fly past and I stare hard, trying to commit it all to memory just-in-case.</p><p>“You are too sentimental for your own good. I’m telling you now that we’ll be back in a month or two at most, really,” Nastya comments from behind me. </p><p>When I am sure that it has all passed, I sit on the edge of my bed to face her. “Don’t act as though you feel nothing because I know you do and you are not superior for pretending otherwise.”</p><p>She blinks and a cloud passes over the sky-blue of her eyes. Instead of saying anything she lies back and looks up at the ceiling. My regret is instant.</p><p>“Oh Nastya, you know I don’t mean it!” I begin to no avail, “please, let’s find Monsieur Gilliard and have some breakfast.” </p><p>At the mention of food, her eyes light up again. At least she is easy to please.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The rest of the day passes quickly and I spend most of it reading in the saloon car. I tried to paint at first, but the shaking of the train made everything I drew look dreadful. After dinner, Monsieur Gilliard offers to give us an extra French lesson or two to impress our parents when they join us, but we have to decline his generosity. Instead, we make him tell us about his life in Switzerland-or try to. The poor man gives us almost nothing despite our relentless questioning, mentioning only his father and a brother. </p><p>Anastasia eventually gives up and moves over to the red chintz armchair beneath one of the central windows to work on some slightly crooked embroidery.</p><p>“When will you go back home next?” I ask, turning back to where he sits stiffly on the edge of a sofa.</p><p>He thinks for a moment, probably concerned about worrying us too much. “When my work is done,” he says finally. “And when it is safe to travel through Europe.”</p><p>I nod and look down at my feet. It is strange, just the three of us in fitful silence with only the train on the tracks and a low electrical buzz to listen to. Normally rail journeys are busy and exciting things with everyone in such a small space, <em> this </em>only makes me uncomfortable.</p><p>“If you might excuse me, I’ll check that Their Highnesses are coping alright.” He looks at me for permission and I nod again, freeing him from the awkward atmosphere of the car. </p><p>As soon as the door slides shut, Anastasia moves back to sit next to me. “There’s no need for that, he just wants to see Shura,” she whispers with a glint in her eyes.</p><p>I smile. It was true that when the maids were informed that Monsieur Gilliard would be heading the trip south, Shura volunteered to accompany us very quickly indeed. </p><p>“You mustn't tease him about it,” I warn, “if you do there might be a chance that he’ll go off her and that wouldn’t be fair.”</p><p>She sinks back into her cushion and drops her crafts into her lap. “And you think that they would make an awfully sweet pair, don’t you?”</p><p>“One would be mad not to,” I reply as I stand.</p><p>“Where are you off to?”</p><p>“Bed, but you can stay if you like.” I don’t tell her that, as much as I adore her, she is usually the cause of my tiredness.</p><p>She snorts and I cringe at the sound. If Mama were here she would scold her for being unladylike, but I can’t bring myself to do it for her. </p><p>“I intend to stay up all night and all tomorrow until we get to Sevastopol, maybe even past then.”</p><p> I don’t reply but leave her there, certain that I’ll find her crawling into bed within the hour. In the end, she lasts less than thirty minutes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I wake early and find that a crack in the curtains has allowed pale blue light to land directly on my pillow. Assuming that that is what disturbed me, I roll over and see that Anastasia is gone from her bed. Sitting up sharply, I listen for her footsteps in the hallway outside of our compartment but hear nothing until suddenly a door further down the car slides open and shut. Then there are soft, careful steps which stop as our door slowly opens.</p><p>“Nastya?” I call in as hushed a tone as possible.</p><p>“Oh,” she says as she comes back in, I see that she hasn’t even thrown a dressing gown over her nightclothes. “I thought you were asleep.”</p><p>“I was. What’s happening?”</p><p>She frowns and hovers her small hand over the door handle. “If I tell you you must promise not to worry.”</p><p>This is, obviously, worrying. “I promise,” I lie.</p><p>“Well...there’s been a telegram from Mama, two actually. She says that there’s some trouble at the front and more in the city and the train will be sent for Papa as soon as we arrive so really there isn’t anything to worry about anyway.” The words leave her mouth in a rush and she seems to surprise herself by the speed of her speech.</p><p>“Why were you told and I was not?” I ask, swinging my legs over the edge and into the crisp morning air.</p><p>“I happened to be walking about is all.”</p><p>“Then where is Monsieur Gilliard? I want to read them.”</p><p>“He is back to bed by now I should think, just wait until the morning and then ask him for them,” Nastya says as she walks back to her own bed. She is snoring again in no time at all, but I remain frozen with my toes grazing the carpet for what feels like an eternity.</p><p>When I finally do lie down, my mind is flooded with all manner of horrible scenarios that spring to life when I close my eyes: the Palace invaded by strikers, Papa imprisoned in his own rooms at Mogilev. And no sooner have I finally gone back to sleep than Shura is knocking to wake us for the busy day ahead.</p><p>I force myself to sit up as Anastasia switches the lights on, unfortunately glimpsing myself in the mirror on the wardrobe door. My hair and eyes are brown, blue, and bright as ever, but I certainly look older. The war has aged us all in our own ways, I think, and some of us much more than others.</p><p>We dress in silence, and when Shura comes in to style our hair the first time I speak is to ask about the telegrams.</p><p>“Oh, Pierre has them still,” she says as she twists my hair up from my shoulders, “though I warn you that there is nothing to be found in them that Anastasia Nikolaevna won’t have told you already.”</p><p>As soon as she is done I walk down to the dining car. The table contains only rye bread and butter, disappointing though not a great surprise, and I am alone until Anastasia joins me. From my seat and I can see through the window past her head that the landscape has changed drastically. The villages are becoming less sparse and the Black Sea is just visible on the horizon. As sad as I have been to leave Tsarskoe, I can’t deny my joy at the prospect of being at Livadia again.</p><p>“Maria? Are you even listening to me?” Anastasia’s voice snaps into focus and she stares at me expectantly.</p><p>Blushing, I quietly ask, “What?”</p><p>She rolls her eyes. “I was saying that I’m going to speak to Shura after this, I think I might finally be catching it.”</p><p>“You haven’t seemed ill,” I offer.</p><p>“I know, but I feel rather off this morning…maybe I should wait until we get to Livadia.”</p><p>“Well, Mama did warn us it was important to let Shura know right away if anything was wrong,” I say, followed by a sip of cool water.<br/>Anastasia nods a little vacantly then seems to drift into her own thoughts.</p><p>A few more minutes pass like this, but just as I begin to get up and leave we hear an awful commotion from further up the train. We glance quizzically at each other and begin to make our way towards the noise, the source of which becomes obvious when we reach our sleeper car.</p><p>The door of Olga and Tatiana’s compartment is wide open but our view of the inside is blocked by Monsieur Gilliard hovering anxiously at the threshold. Shura is shouting inside, frantic, and I hear Olga’s nervous voice in the background asking what she should do.</p><p>“What’s happening?” Anastasia calls, pushing her way past me. None of them answer.</p><p>A footman whose name I can’t quite recall comes bounding towards the scene from the opposite entrance with a cloth and small bowl of water in his hands. He barely looks at us and slips past Monsieur Gilliard wordlessly.</p><p>“What’s happening?” Anastasia demands again, becoming impatient and more than a little frightened.</p><p>Monsieur Gilliard turns to us, white as a sheet, and mutters, “There’s something-Tatiana Nikolaevna-” he looks back into the room, “The poor girl.”</p><p>I feel a deep, black pit form in my stomach and immediately imagine the worst. “She...she’s not dying is she?” I ask reluctantly. The lack of an answer scares me further and I grip Nastya’s hand so tightly that it loses all colour.</p><p>For a while, there is no change. Anastasia bounces on the tips of her feet, occasionally trying to catch a glimpse of anything happening inside. But slowly the voices become quieter until they stop altogether.</p><p>Monsieur Gilliard jumps aside as Shura emerges, dark hair sticking to her forehead. “She’ll be alright, I think,” she says. With just those words, the tension in the hallway seems to dissipate. She gives Anastasia and me a sympathetic look and continues. “She was convulsing-a fit, you know, and there was a bit of a panic because...well sometimes these things can indicate further problems but it’s alright now. I’m sure of it.” When she has finished speaking, Nastya lets out a strange sort of laugh.</p><p>“This is not something to laugh about Anastasia” Shura’s tone is one of unmistakable disapproval.</p><p>Nastya’s eyes widen. “Oh no-I know it’s just-I suppose I never thought that one of us might actually die,” she turns to me with a panicked look on her face, “Masha what if I die?”</p><p>At first, I don’t know what to say. Anastasia is hardly ever serious and I would be lying if I said that the thought of any one of us dying doesn’t terrify me too. Thankfully, I am saved from having to formulate an answer by Shura asking if she thinks she’s coming down with measles and the ensuing conversation distracts them enough for me to slip away to our compartment.</p><p>Going over to the window, I see that we’re not terribly far from Sevastopol-Tatiana’s incident must have lasted longer than I’d thought.</p><p>By the time we roll into the station, Anastasia has still not returned and Shura pokes her head in to ask if I might take Nastya’s luggage outside as well as my own. I agree, of course, it’s hardly an inconvenience to me and Mama always says that we should avoid too often asking servants to perform tasks that we are perfectly capable of getting done ourselves.</p><p>As I step onto the platform, the unique scent of the mountains fills my lungs and I make my way down to join the others by two open motors where I notice that Tatiana is not present. Shura orders myself and Monsieur Gilliard into one, and Anastasia, Olga, and Alexei into the other. When we question Tanya’s whereabouts, she informs us that she’ll wait with her until one of the motors returns so that “our tall patient” will be able to lie properly across the seats without any worry of being crowded or infecting me.</p><p>“I’ve probably already caught it,” I mutter, but my argument falls on deaf ears.</p><p>As we drive away Monsieur Gilliard says, “I hope you did not mind very much not having Vespers yesterday evening, I might have tried myself but I’m afraid I’m not the most spiritually educated.”</p><p>It takes me a moment to realise that he is trying to make some sort of joke or at least lighten the mood. I smile politely but look away and out to the streets.</p><p>We receive a few looks, likely more on account of the motors than anything, but nobody waves or smiles as we pass. I try to put it down to our trip being so last-minute, but in my heart I know that that cannot be the whole truth.</p><p>I sigh as I remember what Olga said only two weeks ago; <em>There is a great change coming for us. It is a pity that neither Mama nor even Papa can see it yet.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Every surface on and around Livadia Palace is coated in a fine layer of frost, a sight that I can’t recall ever seeing before. It’s pretty but makes me uncomfortable. As though the proper order of things has been thrown off-balance. </p><p>Monsieur Gilliard gestures for me to stay put as my siblings make their way inside. Olga and Alexei, the latter in particular, seem cheerful and lively. I expect that their suffering is almost done. Anastasia, however, looks markedly gloomy at the prospect of being ill and trapped inside for however long would be necessary. Not that I wouldn’t be, either.</p><p>Barely have I stepped out of the motor than a footman from inside the palace emerges and comes towards us with an awkward sort of trot which I quickly recognise as being the long-limbed movements of Maxim Timurovich, an attendant of my sisters and me.</p><p>“Maria Nikolaevna!” He calls as he rounds the front of the motor to approach me. “Maria Nikolaevna, I must tell you that Her Majesty is having tea in your reception room.”</p><p>“What?” I ask, taken aback. “The Empress is here?”</p><p>His dark eyes widen as he realises his mistake. “No- well, yes- that is, the Dowager Empress.”</p><p>“Ah.” I’m not sure that I have the energy to speak to grandmama after such an eventful morning, but I know that it would be spectacularly rude to turn her out now. </p><p>Maxim hovers by me as I collect our luggage and I can tell that he is barely able to restrain himself from trying to assist me. He is only young and terribly sweet, but despite his three years in our service has never been entirely able to adopt the stoic, business-like attitude of most footmen.</p><p>We walk across the gravel together and alone as Monsieur Gilliard has already gone inside.</p><p>“I passed Alexei Nikolaevich and your sisters when they came in, but not Tatiana Nikolaevna,” he says, glancing at me occasionally.</p><p>“She’s in a rather bad way actually, but even though I insisted there was room for her in our motor, Alexandra Alexandrovna would not have it. The Empress did not mind us mixing so much, but <em> she </em>is so rigid about it.”</p><p>“Are you not afraid to be ill then?”</p><p>I consider his question briefly. “No, I don’t think so. Only afraid of one of us...passing, but I imagine that I am robust enough to fight it off myself.” I lift the suitcases higher to prove my point and he laughs in his distinct way. “Actually,” I continue, “would it be awful of me to ask you to take these to their owners? Only, I wouldn’t want to leave the Dowager Empress waiting for too long.”</p><p>He nods enthusiastically, practically tears the suitcases from my arms, and I hurry inside to make my way upstairs.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Our personal rooms are furnished relatively inexpensively and with an abundance of clutter anywhere that will hold it. Grandmama’s displeasure with these arrangements is always plain to see, even now. She sits very precisely in a blue chintz chair by the rightmost window, gripping her saucer protectively in her lap as though she is afraid that something might fall and shatter it. </p><p>“Oh Marie darling, it’s such a pleasure to see you after so long! Come, before the tea is cold.” She smiles but does not show more affection than that. We haven’t seen one another since the war began, and I allow myself to feel a little disappointed at her restrained reaction. Though in truth, I don’t know what I expected.</p><p>She watches me as I walk towards her and I become very aware of how she sees me. I am awkward and clumsy, I talk far too much and in a more animated manner than I should, my lips are too thick, and there is rather more of me than would be ideal- all this she has said both directly to me and to others. Perhaps it is not so bad that we all meet only rarely now.</p><p>“How are Alexei and your sisters?” She asks as I sink into an armchair opposite her.</p><p>“Alexei and Olga are recovering well, I think, Anastasia has only just caught it and Tatiana is...less well but Alexandra Alexandrovna- you know, Tegleva? Anyway, she says that Tatiana should be fine.”</p><p>She nods in a very measured way. “They are terrible, these childhood illnesses. One might be perfectly alright in the morning and gone by two o’clock.” She adds a short hum at the end of her sentence, but there is a distinct sadness in her round eyes.</p><p>There is silence for a while, punctuated by two sets of clocks ticking away the seconds from various perches around the room.</p><p>“When we were on the train,” I begin finally, “Mama sent telegrams saying that there was some trouble at the front and the city too, have you heard anything more?”</p><p>The corner of her mouth curls at the mention of Mama, but she doesn’t comment further. “Oh Marie,” she says again, “I would not trouble yourself with these things, there is surely enough here for you to worry about.”</p><p>“But-”</p><p>“It is being sorted out.” The softness of her pale face hardens. “There is no more than that-sit up, an imperial highness should not slouch.”</p><p>I feel the urge to shout in frustration, but the thought of another of her comments keeps me from it.</p><p> The clink of her cup and saucer being put down jolts me back into the moment.</p><p>“Well, if there is nothing else I suppose that I shall be going.”</p><p>We stand together and I trudge behind her to the door, stopping suddenly when she spins around at the threshold. </p><p>“And do remember that the rest of us are not far, there is nothing and <em> nobody </em>to stop you from reaching out to your family should you wish to do so Marie. It is not a nice thing to be alone in such a large place.”</p><p>I frown. “I’m not alone, I have my sisters and Alexei.”</p><p>She half-smiles, and though I can’t discern exactly what I can see that something else is lurking behind it.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>By some miracle, it is very likely that I will not be ill. We have been two days already at Livadia, two dull days of sorting things that Mama would usually handle but two days nonetheless. Not to mention that I’ve been exposed to it for a week at least and still feel fit as ever. But it is not all good news. Tatiana’s hearing is gone again and as Doctor Botkin is supposed to be arriving any time in the next week with Papa and Mama, we have no way of knowing if or when it will return. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so distraught, not even when our friend Grigory died and I was positive she would drown herself with her tears.</p><p>Alexei giggles as he knocks a line of his beloved tin soldiers over and I lose the thought.</p><p>“Behold, they tremble as the Tsar approaches!” Olga whispers to me over our shaded iron table. She is well enough now to make supervised visits into the gardens, perfect as the weather is beginning to warm.</p><p>“Don’t be unkind, he loves the things and there is so little else to cheer him,” I say.</p><p>She raises an eyebrow. “That’s called a joke, Masha.”</p><p>“Oh.” I feel my cheeks turn pink at my ‘slowness’, as Monsieur Gilliard calls it. “Well, I’m glad you’re joking again.”</p><p>She looks out across the terrace to where the cliffs drop into the sea. “As am I.”</p><p>Suddenly, there are harsh footsteps on the gravel behind us and I turn to see Shura all but running towards us with a piece of paper gripped tightly in her fingers. When she has closed the distance, she skids to a halt and breathlessly holds the small slip out to Olga who takes it gingerly.</p><p>“Oh dear God, please let it be good news,” I hear her mutter as she puts it on the table.</p><p>Barely has a second gone by than I anxiously ask, “What is it?”</p><p>Any and all joy has seeped from her face. “Papa is being kept at Mogilev, they’re trying to make him give up the throne. Grandmama still has her train so she will be going up at once to try and iron out whatever is happening.”</p><p>“What?” Alexei and I ask in unison.</p><p>“Why?” I continue</p><p>Olga shakes her head and turns to Shura. “Did she call?”</p><p>“Yes, but you’ll have no chance of asking her more. She said that she was going as soon as she finished speaking to me.”</p><p>“So, what? Are we expected to sit around in the sun whilst our futures are being decided?”</p><p>“Olga,” I try to say gently, “I don’t think there is anything to be done about it, and remember what Papa says. If God wills it then it will happen.”</p><p> She scowls. “God’s will indeed.”</p><p> “Well, think! If Papa does decide to-to give it up, we’ll see him so much more often and he won’t be so vexed all the time,” I say, though I don't really believe that such a thing might actually happen.</p><p>Olga takes a deep breath. “Maria, do you read the papers?”</p><p>I shake my head.</p><p>“I thought not, well I shall tell you. These people will not stand for the former Emperor and his family living as they always have so we will be <em> nothing </em>. Worse than nothing, actually, because most have some sort of skill with which to earn a living, Papa does not have anything practical like that.” She sounds as though she’s on the edge of crying.</p><p>“We have money, Olga, plenty of it.”</p><p>“And you think that they will let us keep it?”</p><p>“I am trying to keep you from being so miserable and you will not have it!” I shout. “At least I am not letting myself wallow in misery!”</p><p>All three look thoroughly taken aback by my outburst, as am I in truth. Without saying anything more, I begin the short walk back to the palace myself. It cannot happen. It will not happen. And God help us if it does.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I promise I don't hate Maria F! Everything I've read says that she was relatively cold with OTMAA and she did make some slightly rude comments about Olga and Maria in particular so I'm just rolling with that.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The wind is strong this morning, not even the trees that guard the meandering path down to the sea can prevent me from feeling it as Olga and I walk together. Over the past week, this has become a sort of ritual for us. We found that sitting around, waiting endlessly for news that never came built up a lot of nervous energy in us and we needed a distraction anyway. We can almost pretend that this is a normal holiday. Tatiana was forced to join us yesterday, but we had barely made it into the gardens before she began sobbing at not being able to speak with us and ran inside again. She has shut herself in Mama and Papa’s bedroom since and will allow none but Shura in to see her.</p><p>“What a pitiful group we all make,” I sigh as we stop to sit upon one of the walls. The trees are not so tall this far down and we finally have an unobstructed view of the angry waves below.</p><p>Olga hums in agreement and pulls her pale blue headscarf further forward. I opted not to wear one and am beginning to regret that decision.</p><p>“We should have seen Papa at Mogilev,” she says suddenly.</p><p>“What do you mean?” I ask as we begin walking again.</p><p>“On our way here we should have stopped to see Papa, it wouldn’t have been much of a detour if one at all. I expect...we probably will not see him for a long time now.”</p><p>We’ve been through this sort of conversation plenty of times recently. “We don’t know that,” I say in an attempt to reassure her. “He might be fine now-it might have been a false alarm in the first place!”</p><p>“Oh, to have your relentless optimism,” she mutters.</p><p>I’m certain that she doesn’t mean it in a hurtful way, yet it still stings slightly to hear. We continue in silence until we reach our little beach. To my great surprise, Olga tears off her shoes, socks, and headscarf, holds her skirt up to her thighs, and wades into the water.</p><p>“What are you doing?” I shout across to her, “is it not freezing?”</p><p>“Horribly!” She shrieks as the water reaches her knees.</p><p>I hurry towards the water’s edge but am powerless to stop her as she suddenly allows herself to fall beneath the surface.</p><p>“Olga!” I call, more than a little panicked-none of us swims very well.</p><p>She comes back up as quickly as she went under and, gasping, turns to me with something burning in the bright blue of her eyes. Something that immediately scares me.</p><p>“Olga come back, you’ll be ill again!”</p><p>She laughs loudly, loud enough for the sound not to be swallowed by the wind anyway.</p><p>“Stop it!” I plead. “You are scaring me half to death!” Tears of pure fear begin to slide down my cheeks and this seems to bring her to her senses.</p><p>She makes her way out and carefully pulls her socks back on. “I don’t want to ruin these,” she says quietly, picking up her shoes. She’s shivering terribly and I throw my shawl over her shoulders. </p><p>We’re almost to the top at last when, turning a corner, we collide with Maxim Timurovich who must have been sprinting down. He grows flustered when he recognises us, more so when he sees Olga’s state.</p><p>“Oh-oh! I’m sorry, I am. Alexandra Alexandrovna sent me to get you, I thought you would be-Olga Nikolaevna, are you alright, should I fetch someone to take you back?”</p><p>“No, I-I’ll go up on my own,” she says with a flickering smile. I reach out to grasp her arm so that she won’t leave, I’m afraid of what she might do if she makes it out of my sight.</p><p>“Why did you come to fetch us?” I ask Maxim as I gesture for us all to keep going.</p><p>“Oh yes! The Dowager Empress rang but of course, none but Alexandra Alexandrovna could answer. She was not at all pleased and demanded that you be sent for at once.” I nod, dreading it already. Why on Earth would she bother calling if Papa was coming to us?</p><p>Olga walks ahead but strangely chooses to go left around the other side of the palace. I assume that she is making for the chapel, but am pulled away by Maxim before I can follow her. Briefly, I consider demanding, as a Grand Duchess, that he leave me. But I cannot bring myself to do it. </p><p>Instead, I allow myself to be led into Papa’s study where Shura stands behind his great mahogany desk, holding the telephone receiver at a distance from her ear. She gives me an exasperated look as I shut the doors and an endlessly grateful one as I take the telephone from her.</p><p>“-so it is quite useless, you see, his mind will not be changed,” my grandmother’s crackling voice says, almost shouting. “I should think that a boy’s mother ought to have rather more sway over him, but there you have it.”</p><p>“Grandmama, it’s Maria now,” I say when I’m certain she has finished.</p><p>“Oh? Has Tegleva run off on me?”</p><p>“I-I suppose so.”</p><p>She grumbles something that I can’t make out then sighs. “Well, it has been the most dreadful business here, Marie. I will have to be leaving soon or else I fear that I will not leave at all! Oh, and your poor dear father, my heart cannot take any more of it!” That deep, dark pit I felt on the train returns. </p><p>“What-what do you mean Grandmama? Nothing has happened to him, has it?”</p><p>“No, no, but I must tell you in person tomorrow, I will be there for supper. I cannot cry any more today Marie.”</p><p>“No!” I shout into the mouthpiece. “No, please tell me now. Whatever it is I can’t wait until tomorrow evening. Please.”</p><p>She doesn’t speak for a few seconds, but her shaky breaths exacerbate my worries.</p><p>“Marie...dear...I am very sorry indeed but your father is no longer Emperor. He offered the throne to Misha but he too will not have it so now there is no Emperor. And no Grand Duchesses.”</p><p>“Oh,” is all that I can bring myself to say. “Oh.”</p><p>I put the receiver down. I can vaguely hear Grandmama’s voice buzzing through, but I step away as though it has stung me. Shura approaches me slowly.</p><p>“Did you know?” I demand.</p><p>She nods, and my eyes fill with tears.</p><p>“I should-I should tell Olga,” I manage to say before I truly begin sobbing. </p><p>Stumbling out into the hallway, I’m somewhat confused by my own response to it all. I didn't really expect that we get out of this so easily, did I? Not with Papa trapped by his own officers.</p><p>
  <em> Oh, but the others. </em>
</p><p>In my mind’s eye, Tatiana is sobbing already which is made worse by my remembering that I will have to write it down for her. That’s if I can coax her out in the first place, and how could I with such foul bait?</p><p>I collapse next to a side table and almost hit my head as my body crumples like paper beneath me.</p><p>
  <em> What are we supposed to do now? </em>
</p><p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Olga, is that really all you’re going to eat?” </p><p>“I’m not hungry.”</p><p>Shura sighs, she has clearly been exhausted by trying to manage the five of us on top of worrying about whatever is happening with Mama and Papa. “You are barely flesh and bones...dear me,” she says, giving me a look across our round dining table. We had it brought up to our sitting room in the hopes that Tatiana might feel up to eating with us, but she would not be made to emerge.</p><p>Anastasia, on the other hand, seems to have made a full recovery judging by the veritable mountain of food on her plate. “I am a growing girl, am I not?” She said when Shura questioned the wisdom of eating so much at once.</p><p>“Well anyway,” Shura begins after a minute or so of silence, “I had hoped to tell you all at the same time, but as I will have to write it for Tatiana Nikolaevna anyway I don’t suppose it matters terribly. There was a letter from the new government this afternoon, they say they’re sending some Kerensky fellow down to speak with you and sort out what will be done. Apparently he has already spoken to your parents and they have come to an arrangement.”</p><p>“An arrangement?” I ask</p><p>“Yes, about where you will go.”</p><p>Alexei puts down his fork. “But...we live here. Why can’t Mama and Papa come to Livadia and all of us stay here? It is our house even if Papa is not the Emperor anymore, isn’t it?”</p><p>Shura frowns. “Well...we shall have to see. But it sounds as though they want you to be taken abroad.”</p><p>At this, there is a general uproar. We all begin protesting, leaving Russia is the very last thing we want.</p><p>“Save your complaints!” She shouts over us. “I know nothing more than this and certainly have no say in the matter so let’s stop this and have a pleasant dinner.” She gives a harsh look to Anastasia, the loudest voice of all. “<em> Please. </em>”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tonight, Anastasia has finally moved back into our usual bedroom. The quiet was nice for a while but I’m really very glad of her company. I can scarcely remember a time when our general morale was quite so depleted as it is now.</p><p>Our bedroom is a lovely, cheerful room which does somewhat improve my mood; striped wallpaper in a pale green and furniture of the same light wood used in nearly every other room arranged by Mama. The clutter is all ours, however.</p><p>Anastasia has made herself a perch on the corner of our table by the window, feet resting on the arms of the chair in front of her. She couldn’t sleep and is doing an awful job of pretending to read; in the last ten minutes she hasn’t turned a single page.</p><p>There is a crack in the curtains through which a sliver of moonlight is able to hit the yellowish carpet and I fixate on that from my bed. “Will Shura make you all shave your heads?” I ask suddenly. “Like when Tanya had typhoid fever?”</p><p>She closes her book with a heavy thud. “What’s it to you?”</p><p>“Nastya, I only-”</p><p>She scoffs and hops down from the table before disappearing behind one of the matching chintz screens, a subsequent creak tells me that she must have thrown herself onto the sofa that it hides. Thoroughly confused by this interaction, I roll over in an attempt to sleep again but am prevented by angry voices in the hallway.</p><p>One is Shura, at least I think so, and the other a man. At first, I believe him to be Monsieur Gilliard but I soon realise that his pronunciation is much harsher and with no particular accent. </p><p>“-letter must have been late, it is awfully short notice,” she hisses.</p><p>“I am aware, but I am a very busy man and would prefer to be back in Petrograd with as little delay as possible.”</p><p>“Life is not always what we would prefer it to be, sir, so would you have me wake the children?” Her tone is that which we have come to obey without question. </p><p>The man clearly doesn’t perceive it the same way and lets out a quiet laugh, more of a scoff really. “Now Miss Tegleva, they are hardly children. Fetch me the eldest girls at least.”</p><p>Her indignation is as clear as if she was standing right before me. “<em>Fetch </em>them for you? Well, I must disappoint you! Olga Nikolaevna is…unwell, and Tatiana Nikolaevna is suffering hearing complications from the measles that I would hope you’ve been informed of.”</p><p>“I’ll see the next then,” he says.</p><p>I am distracted from hearing whatever Shura’s reply is because Anastasia pokes her head out from behind the screen, eyes as wide as anything. She tries to mouth something to me but before I can understand what it is, the door has opened and Shura has slipped inside. Immediately, she sees Anastasia and gives her a questioning look before deciding that it wouldn’t be worth trying to make her go to bed. Instead, she crosses to me.</p><p>Her soft hair is falling from its fastening and her eyes are full of worry, but still she puts on a smile for my sake. “You are awake then?” She asks gently. I nod as I sit up. “Right, well, it turns out that the letter from the new government arrived a little later than had been hoped and Kerensky-the representative, do you remember? He is here now and wishes to see you.”</p><p>“<em>Now </em>?” Anastasia asks incredulously.</p><p>“Yes. I tried to make him delay but he is rather forceful and he does seem to be in charge of your futures so I did not wish to put him in too sour a mood.”</p><p>“Okay,” I say quietly. “Should I dress properly then?”</p><p>She shakes her head and swiftly pulls me to my feet. “One of your Japanese gowns will suffice, but I should put your hair up.”</p><p>Nervously, I go and sit at our dressing table. It is the same light wood as everything else but it can barely be seen due to everything that has collected on top. In a place of pride is an engraved, silver tube of very light pink lipstick that Tatiana was allowed for her sixteenth birthday. She didn’t like it in the end and gave it to Anastasia for our plays.</p><p>Shura’s hands shake slightly as she twists my hair up, whether out of frustration or worry I cannot tell. A pin slips from between her fingers and she tuts when she goes to pick it up from the table. I wonder that she doesn’t turn the overhead light on.</p><p>Nastya’s face comes into view of the mirror from my right. “You must tell him that we are staying in Russia, here would be better but it doesn’t matter so long as Mama and Papa are with us.”</p><p>“Fetch a gown,” Shura tells her curtly, and that is the end of Anastasia’s input.</p><p>She nods when she is finished and I wordlessly stand to slip on the robe. It’s pale yellow with a pattern of bright red flowers; one of Olga’s that was adjusted for me.</p><p>Shura mutters to Nastya that she must go to bed now, then grabs my wrist to take me into the hallway. “One of the footmen has taken him to your reception room,” she says. But when I try to go she stops me. “You must be brave now-and use your head. Remember that you are acting not only for yourself but for your sisters and your poor brother.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>She smiles thinly and taps me on the shoulder. “Go on then, do not be afraid.”</p><p><em> Do not be afraid</em>, I repeat in my head as I walk towards the door. He is only a man of flesh and blood and I shouldn’t work myself up so.</p><p>I open the door slowly and am surprised to see that only a table lamp has been switched on. The man, <em> Kerensky</em>, sits on a low, blue chintz sofa next to the light. The carefully balanced clocks tick away as they did when Grandmama visited, but now there is no tea with which I might distract myself from the conversation ahead.</p><p>He looks up at me and smiles as I enter. His face is pleasant and open enough, but it is marred by a nose a good deal too round.</p><p>“Maria Nikolaevna yes?” he gestures to the sofa on the other side of the lamp from him, “please sit.” The familiarity of his speech I do not like so much. I then realise that this is a guest, a male guest of some importance, and try to think of what Mama might do. I hold my hand out for him to kiss as I have done a hundred times at least and have seen Mama do a thousand more. He laughs and lifts his ankle to rest on his knee. “None of that now, please,” he says dismissively.</p><p>Already I feel myself turning pink and am glad at the lack of light. I try to sit elegantly, but his eyes are calculating as they watch me and I feel as though they burn right through to my soul.</p><p>“Maria Nikolaevna,” he says again, “I am sorry to drag you from bed at such an hour but as you know, the situation is...rather a dire one.”</p><p>This, of course, worries me deeply. But not wanting to appear ignorant, I make myself whisper an, “oh?”</p><p>“Now, I have discussed the matter with your parents-who <em> are </em> safe might I add-and they agree that it would be in everyone’s best interests to send the five of you overseas as soon as it can be done.”</p><p>I furrow my brow. “And did Their Majesties agree that they will not be joining us?” I realise my mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth, but Kerensky does not bring me up on it.</p><p>“There was never much of a choice in that,” he says but does not elaborate further.</p><p>I shift slightly to the left and begin nervously picking at where the fabric of the sofa’s arm meets the wood. For a few moments there is nothing but the ticking of those infernal clocks and the faint crashing of waves on rocks. I feel as though I am being dashed upon the rocks myself. “Well, what- where will we go?” I ask at last, cursing myself for the desperate tone that my voice takes on.</p><p>He smiles again and leans forward. “That is where you come in.” From his pocket he pulls a sheet of wrinkled paper as well as a small pen and slides them at me across the table. As I pick the paper up, I see that it is a list in Papa’s handwriting.</p><p>“These are the countries that your father believes will take you, I need you to underline the three that you would prefer and I will make inquiries-although I cannot guarantee that any of the three you choose will agree.”</p><p>I glance at the list; Spain, Belgium, Denmark, Greece, the United Kingdom and several more.</p><p>“Can…can I ask my sisters?”</p><p>He frowns. “I’m speaking to you because I was told that they aren’t to be disturbed. Oh, and your father mentions Romania but I believe their own situation might prevent them.”</p><p>I blink. I have a choice to make with unimaginable consequences and I have to do it alone.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” I say, “I don’t think I’ve ever really had to...<em>choose </em>something before. Not something real.”</p><p>He doesn’t reply, so I pick up the pen and try to put my mind to the task. With nearly no hesitation I underline the United Kingdom. Mama considers it a second home and though I was young, I remember enjoying our brief trip to one of their regattas. Not to mention that Queen Alexandra is Grandmama’s sister. The next is marginally harder, but I choose Denmark. Grandmama is from there and Papa visited a lot when he was younger. For the third, I have to think much longer. Briefly I consider America, but the idea leaves my head quick. Then maybe Greece, but I know nearly nothing about that branch of Grandmama’s family. I am torn, until finally I see France at the very bottom of the page. There is a bridge named for our Grandfather and I know that it is a rather popular holiday destination among the nobility, so I hope that relations are well.</p><p>“Alright,” I say, “I think this is it.” I lean across to hand him his things before I become indecisive and want to change something.</p><p>He puts them back into his pocket and stands quickly. “Wonderful.”</p><p>I stand too but lean back against the arm. “Mr Kerensky,” I ask, “when will we see our parents?”</p><p>He glances uncomfortably between me and the door. “I...I really could not tell you. There are some awfully bloodthirsty fellows amongst my peers. My advice to you, Maria Nikolaevna, is to steel yourself now. We are trying to rush you and your siblings out for a reason.” With that, he is gone from the room.</p><p>Within the minute, Shura is in the doorway and I can’t keep myself from bursting into tears.</p><p>“Oh, what a dreadful mess we’re all in,” she says as she hurries over to comfort me. I can’t help but agree.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>These are definitely getting longer, hopefully that's a good thing!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A small brown bird pecks at the gravel near a bush. Perhaps it has found a small creature or some seeds on which to feast, but I can’t tell from where I wait on the portico. It is soon blocked from my view entirely by an open motor pulling up to us in a smooth arc.</p><p>“We should just go,” Anastasia mutters as she bounces restlessly against a column. “No amount of convincing will make her come.” It is true that little improvement has been made with Tatiana, I saw her last when they were having their heads shaved and she was worse than I’ve ever seen her. Pale as snow and eyes rendered permanently puffy due to her constant crying. I thought that if I tried I might easily wrap my hands around her waist with a little room to spare.</p><p>My own hair was shaved too, though a day later. I didn’t want it done originally but then I felt so terrible about it that I tried to cut it myself. Shura was against it in the first place and I’m sure she nearly fainted when she saw what I’d done. Then there was no arguing or else she would make me look ridiculous which I feel is her worst nightmare.</p><p>Suddenly, I hear footsteps on the marble behind us and spin to see Olga walking arm in arm with Tatiana. Olga’s face is triumphant and joyful, while Tatiana’s is hidden beneath the lowered brim of her straw hat. “Right,” Olga begins when she stops next to us. “I will have no teasing and no unkind talk of her when she is not directly involved, understand?”</p><p>We nod.</p><p>She reaches into the pockets of her skirt and pulls out two large sheets of paper and a pencil each for myself and Anastasia which we take gladly before the four of us clamber into the motor.</p><p>“Is she...completely deaf?” Nastya asks as we begin to drive away.</p><p>Olga shakes her head. “She can hear now if you speak close enough to her.”</p><p>“Will you tell her that I think the ribbon on her hat suits her complexion very well?” I ask. Olga is only too happy to oblige.</p><p>Anastasia scoffs and rests her chin on her fist, looking out to the mountains. </p><p>Everything is beginning to bloom properly now, and the sunshine on the terracotta-roofed houses dotted about the hills create the most wonderful effect.</p><p>I feel something tap my knee and turn to see Tatiana smiling hesitantly. </p><p>“Thank you,” she says in a voice made slightly hoarse with disuse. For a moment I glimpse the stormy grey of her eyes-every one of her features is as pretty as they could possibly be made. What I wouldn’t give for that.</p><p>“Do you think we’ll be able to see little Irina? She is such a dear thing in her photographs,” I say.</p><p>“<em>Bébé,” </em> Anastasia spits. “It’s ridiculous! <em> Real </em> Irina fawns over the creature like there is nothing more amazing. And why she would marry Yusupov of all men is utterly beyond me.”</p><p>“Nastya!” Olga scolds. “I see now it’s probably better that Bébé is in Petrograd anyway, but you are right about Felix.” She frowns. “He is a foul man and a coward at that.”</p><p>“He <em>is </em>his mother’s only son now,” I say quietly. “It’s not against the law for him to stay home from the war. And aunt Ella said he opened the hospital at the Liteyny Palace of his own mind entirely.”</p><p>“He killed our friend!” Anastasia cries.</p><p>I feel myself turning red again. “I’d forgotten,” I mutter, and though it’s the truth I’m not sure how such a thing could slip my mind. The only thing between little Alexei and death had been Rasputin, he seemed to know more than even the doctors! But now Alyosha is entirely at God’s mercy. I say a quick prayer for him in my head, hoping he won’t end up needing it.</p><p>Having flown past Oreanda and the old palatial ruins there, we are quickly approaching the charming little town of Gaspra. Both the Yusupovs and our aunt Xenia have their main Crimean estates here so it is wonderfully convenient for Irina. I should like not to be so far from my own parents when I marry, but with Kerensky’s last words to me bouncing around my mind, I try to banish all thought of them. I will make myself think of nothing but Irina today.</p><p>We haven’t seen her since Papa banished her husband from Petrograd for his crime. She’s exactly four months older than Olga, and yet she is already married with a daughter. Olga doesn’t seem to be in such a hurry which, for the life of me, I cannot understand.</p><p>The trees are becoming thicker now, and I realise that we are on their drive already. It isn’t so different from our own, the entire palace is not so different from ours. Despite the similarities, the Yusupov Palace is grey stone where ours is white, and it was clearly designed with the slope of the hill in mind; one story being cleverly hidden at the back. There is a small fountain by the entrance and the gentle trickling of the water is a lovely, calming sound. I am sure that they must feel the same unique tranquillity here as we do down the coast at Livadia.</p><p>Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure moving quickly towards us from the back of the property. “Irina!” Anastasia calls as we come to a stop, and as the figure comes away from the shadow of the trees I see that she is right.</p><p>Our cousin smiles brightly at this and brighter still when she counts that all four of us have come to call. I notice that her hair is a little longer than she usually likes it and perhaps is not combed so neatly. “Oh!” She cries as we clamber out one by one, “I have missed you all so dearly!”</p><p>“And we you,” Olga says, embracing her tightly.</p><p>I notice that Tatiana looks rather lost and has begun running her thumb around her palm as she does when she is nervous. I link my elbow in hers and give her a reassuring squeeze that she does not reciprocate. </p><p>From my pockets, I remove one sheet of now creased paper as well as my pencil and give them to Irina. “To speak to Tanya,” I tell her.</p><p>At this, Irina’s smile fades and she hugs Tatiana’s face close to her own. “Oh my poor cousin,” she says quietly, “whatever shall we do with you?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>We sit on the terrace at the back of the Palace from where we have a lovely view of the Black Sea. There are tall trees all around, closing us in and shielding us from the uncertain world beyond. I drink very little of the tea and occupy myself with nibbling at a wafer, not quite up to joining the conversation. Olga and Irina artfully dodge mentioning anything about our predicament and try to include Tatiana in the idle chatter where they can, but she grows more obviously uncomfortable as the hour drags on. Anastasia simply looks bored.</p><p>Just as I’m about to suggest a walk down to the sea, Irina’s husband emerges from the very path I wished to explore with a small beige dog on his heels. He stops suddenly when he sees us and seems to contemplate turning back but is prevented from escaping by Irina taking notice and calling him over. His hands are stuffed tightly into the pockets of his grey trousers.</p><p>“Still taking pride in remaining a civilian, I see,” Olga comments once Felix has reached our table.</p><p>He hovers behind Irina, perhaps hoping she might protect him. “And it is a pleasure to see you too,” he says with a sarcastic smile. He nods a greeting to each of us in turn-I am the only one of my sisters to nod back. “All aside,” he continues, “I was sorry to hear of your parents. They may have been blind and foolish but I don’t think throwing them to the wolves was the way to solve anything. My mother always-”</p><p>“What do you mean ‘throwing them to the wolves’?” Olga asks as her eyes narrow with suspicion.</p><p>Felix frowns and glances down at Irina who shares his expression. “Th-the trial? You know.” Upon seeing our blank faces, his posture changes from at least somewhat relaxed to very rigid.</p><p>“They’re on trial? But they haven’t done anything!” Anastasia cries.</p><p>Felix opens his mouth to respond but Irina shushes him and reaches over the table to rest her hand on Anastasia’s. “It is appeasement that’s all, nothing will come of it.”</p><p>“Kerensky said they were safe,” I mutter, but nobody seems to hear me.</p><p>Olga has taken on a very serious look indeed. “How did you learn of this?”</p><p>“Dmitri,” he answers, and his eyes soften greatly with the word. “He doesn’t write to me much now but he thought I’d want to know that they’re taking the Emperor to Moscow because some bloody Bolsheviks or what have you are threatening a coup-he said he’d written to you.”</p><p>“I’ve had no letter from <em> Dmitri. </em>” She all but spits his name. Then I remember something.</p><p>“I’ve had no letters at all in the past week, not from outside the Crimea!” I exclaim, “and neither have any of you.”</p><p>The realisation dawns on us slowly-all but Tatiana who is terribly lost yet again. I kick Anastasia beneath the table and gesture for her to write the situation down. </p><p>“So we are being cut off,” Olga says with a bitter smile. “I suppose I should have expected it.”</p><p>Irina’s expression is one of great pity. “They won’t want you to worry is all. It isn’t a real trial and they don’t want you to be needlessly upset over it.”</p><p>I want to believe what she says, truly I do, but something in the back of my mind tells me she is wrong. I fear this is only the first step of something awful.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So you see it would be quite simple, were it not for the ‘ir’ verbs that like to masquerade as ‘er’ verbs. Anastasia Nikolaevna, come and have a guess at conjugating those.”</p><p>Anastasia grudgingly pulls the little blackboard over to her while Monsieur Gilliard looks on. It is a shame, really. She can be terribly clever when she wants to be but the trouble is that she never does. As for my ability, I’m surprised that our teachers were still persevering with me. Now we have poor Monsieur Gilliard teaching all of us everything, though he does put rather an emphasis on French. He needn’t bother so much, we’ll only forget it all again anyway.</p><p>“There,” Anastasia says with a last flourish of chalk. </p><p>Monsieur Gilliard takes one look and despairs. “Alright...well that isn’t quite how you spell-and you don’t need the ‘iss’ there it is just ‘ez’-and you know very well that <em> that </em> is nonsense.”</p><p>She throws her head onto the desk. “I <em> would </em> know if you had told me the conjugations first.”</p><p>“That defeats the purpose.”</p><p>“But how am I supposed to-," she stops suddenly and lifts her head back up. "Do you hear that? There's a motor on the drive."</p><p>Happy for the distraction, I launch out of my seat and pull the gauze curtains to the side. Unfortunately, the motor and its occupant are around the corner and out of my sight before I can see who it is. “I couldn’t catch them but I’m sure we’ll know in a minute,” I tell them as I turn back around.</p><p>Anastasia’s eyes light up. “Oh! Perhaps it’s someone from the government to tell us that Mama and Papa are coming at last.”</p><p>For a moment I allow myself to hope that this is true, but Kerensky’s last words frighten me away from the idea.</p><p><em> Steel yourself now</em>, he said. I couldn’t bring myself to relay the message to my sisters and certainly not our Alexei. They’re all plenty stressed as it is.</p><p>Monsieur Gilliard tries in vain to get us to focus for a few minutes longer until we are released by several knocks at the door. </p><p>Maxim steps into the room with a nervous glance in my direction followed by Olga and a rather amused looking Alexander Kerensky. Olga is clearly as nervous as Maxim; twice going to tuck her hair behind her ears before remembering that there is none to fiddle with.</p><p>“Thank you for showing me in,” Kerensky says to Maxim who nods and flashes his teeth awkwardly before ducking out again.</p><p>I gesture at Olga who seats herself on the pink chintz sofa behind Anastasia and me. “Shura wouldn’t let Tatya come up,” she whispers.</p><p>I frown but am not given the chance to respond because Kerensky, having greeted Monsieur Gilliard, makes me his next target. “Maria Nikolaevna!” He says with a genuine enthusiasm that surprises me greatly. “I thought that you had escaped the great affliction.”</p><p>‘Oh...I did, but I shouldn’t like to be the odd one out.”</p><p>“Very good, very good. And you must be Anastasia Nikolaevna.”</p><p>“Yes,” she says in an icy tone. She clearly doesn’t trust this friendliness of his, and as they go through all the motions of an introduction I consider that he might be trying to hide something from us.</p><p>“Well,” he says finally, “so long as you do not mind Sir hearing it, I have news to impart.” We all nod impatiently and he pulls out a now much more wrinkled sheet of paper that I recognise as Papa’s list. “I am afraid that the results of my inquiries are not quite what any of us would have hoped, but all is not lost. First, there is the United Kingdom as per Maria Nikolaevna’s request. Now they were awfully fickle, at first they said they would take all of you, then only the five children, then only the women.”</p><p>“That is ridiculous!” Olga exclaims at once. “Was this cousin George you asked or his government?”</p><p>“I presume that the King was consulted, but ultimately it is not up to him. And you are quite lucky that they are willing to take even your mother. The very valid concern is that your father and brother are of much higher political value and therefore-”</p><p>“What do they expect us to do? Leave them behind?” Anastasia is practically ablaze with fury.</p><p>“Let him finish Anastasia,” Monsieur Gilliard chides with the tone of a man very tired indeed. She scoffs and crosses her arms, falling back into her chair.</p><p>“Thank you,” Kerensky continues, “Next there is France who are willing to take all of you if only you could get past the central powers, and Denmark say the same.”</p><p>“Well, that is easy,” Olga says, much more satisfied, “Can we not simply sail into Denmark? Or through the Mediterranean to France?”</p><p>“Indeed you can, although I expect Denmark would be the most sensible of the two given the circumstances,” he replies, and the relief on his face is evident. That is, until Anastasia speaks again.</p><p>“When can we expect to see Mama and Papa?”</p><p>He grows obviously confused. “You...can’t, not if you are going to France or Denmark though of course, the United Kingdom would let you take your mother but mean leaving your brother here. That is what I said, no?”</p><p>“No,” Olga says sourly, shifting forward in her seat.</p><p>Kerensky sighs and looks around at us, trying to put his thoughts into coherent speech. “It was...it was never terribly likely that all of you would leave together. It is a sort of trade, you see. While of course you five are innocent of all, your father certainly is not and your mother would need some convincing to leave him. Especially now that he will be going to Moscow for his trial.”</p><p>“That isn’t what you told me!” I cry, but he simply shakes his head.</p><p>“I was very careful to avoid promises, Maria Nikolaevna. I don’t think that any of you understand how precarious your situation is or just how much we are having to compromise already.”</p><p>“He is not wrong,” Monsieur Gilliard says, though it is clear he dislikes saying so. </p><p>Kerensky thanks him once more and then looks at me. “I may be able to arrange a meeting on your way north, but that is the best I can do. </p><p>“It isn’t fair,” Anastasia says quietly.</p><p>He smiles bitterly at her. “And that is why there was a revolution.”</p><p>I think Olga is about ready to launch herself at him, but digging her nails into a cushion of the sofa seems to calm her down sufficiently.</p><p>“But it-it doesn’t make any sense,” I complain, regretting how childish I sound when I finish speaking. I know that I need to put up a strong front but I can barely manage to keep from crying yet again. Olga gives me a brief, soft look. She is used to comforting Tatiana, even before all of this. But much sooner than I’d like the moment is over, her guard is back up, and her features return to their previous state of hostility.</p><p>“When will we be going then?” She asks. No, <em> demands. </em></p><p>“I cannot say for certain,” he replies, “I expect another week at least, so that everything is in order. I will be sure to send a telegram a day or two before your train. And I will do my utmost to win you an hour or two with your parents, or perhaps only your mother depending on how it all lines up. That I <em> can </em>promise.”</p><p>After that, the meeting ends rather quickly and I am too stunned to take much of it in. Instead, my mind is whirring, desperate to find somewhere that I could have done something differently. Leaving Russia I could accept, painful as it would be. But leaving Mama <em>and</em> Papa...I can’t bear to think of it.</p><p>Thankfully he does not wish to linger any longer than he must, and once we have safely seen him out we rush to find the others. Olga leads us into the Italian courtyard where she and Tatiana had previously been taking in the sun, but we find it deserted save for a book that appears to have been dropped in some haste. Nastya picks it up and brushes the dirt from its pages. “This is Tanya’s, isn’t it?”</p><p>Olga nods. “She said that her ears were aching before Kerensky came and I told Shura when we saw him in, perhaps she has told her to go and lie down?” Given that it is the best lead we have, we go back inside ready to head upstairs again, only to be greeted by a sudden scream of pain coming from Alexei’s rooms. Having scarcely heard it, we sprint down the corridor towards the sound and burst into his bedroom.</p><p>He jumps when we enter, but looks entirely unhurt.</p><p>“What was that?” Olga asks, breathless from just that short run.</p><p>He looks towards the slightly ajar door leading to his dressing and bathrooms. “Tanya,” he says, “Shura brought her in, I think she’s really hurt.” He looks terrified and Anastasia brings him over to sit on the yellow silk chair by his bed that Mama is forever in and out of.</p><p>Olga and I push on to the bathroom, but find that we can’t open the door. Inside we hear whimpering and some hushed words that I can’t understand. “Hello?” I call, still attempting to force the door open.</p><p>“Oh, Maria,” Shura says, slightly muffled. “Go out please, go on.”</p><p>There is another, albeit weaker, shriek, and Olga grows more desperate. “I am not in a mood to be danced around, Shura!” She shouts.</p><p>There is silence for a few seconds, then the door opens a crack and one of Shura’s deep grey eyes appears. She takes us in and, guessing that I will not complain so much at being shut out, allows Olga into the bathroom. I hear a sharp intake of breath but am not able to peek around the door. “Go out,” Shura says again, then hurriedly adds, “Please.” She is correct that I do not wish to argue with her ruling and I decide to trudge back to Anastasia and Alexei.</p><p>“Olga has gone in to see her but I am not allowed,” I say before they can ask anything. They nod, and we sit close together; Nastya and I on the bed and Alexei in his chair. His bedroom is yellow, cheerful, and bright. But it doesn’t seem that way now.</p><p>As the minutes tick by, the cries grow further and further apart until eventually they stop altogether and it is not long after that that the three finally come out. Olga and Shura hold an entirely blanched Tatiana between them, as though she can’t quite support herself. The next thing I notice is the blood. On either side of her collar are two small yet stark red bloodstains, just the sight of it makes me feel ill and I can’t look at her for any longer. “We’re taking her to bed,” Shura says quietly yet firmly, and with that they are gone.</p><p>Alexei looks up at us, his eyes betraying a fear that the rest of his face is trying desperately to hide. “That isn’t good,” he says at last.</p><p>Anastasia laughs and I glare at her. “It is that or crying,” she replies simply as she absent-mindedly reaches a hand behind her to pull on hair that is no longer there. Another habit that we have yet to break.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dinner is a quiet, intimate affair, and none of us feel much like eating after such an awful day. Especially given what has happened to Tanya.</p><p>Shura says that whatever was blocking her ears must have burst, but when she tried to clean them she only caused more damage. Despite our pressing, she wouldn’t elaborate further. Perhaps she simply doesn’t know. It feels like nobody knows anything anymore.</p><p>It is warm enough for us to eat on the balcony outside Olga and Tatiana’s bedroom, but neither of them are here. Olga came out at first but decided she wanted to eat with Tanya, and we were certainly not going to deny her that. Even if Mama would raise an eyebrow at a healthy person eating in bed.</p><p>“We should call Grandmama tomorrow and tell her what has happened,” I say, finally breaking the silence.</p><p>Anastasia freezes mid-bite. “Only if you speak to her, she <em> hates </em>me.”</p><p>“She does not hate you, she is just...opinionated. And when you think of it, that is more like you than not.”</p><p>She wrinkles her nose and I see Alexei smile out of the corner of my eye.</p><p>“And you are alright?” I ask, turning to him. I adore him with all my heart, but we have never been terribly close. When we were younger I was always quite jealous of him, not understanding why he got all the attention I felt I was missing.</p><p>He nods. “It will be nice in Denmark. Just think, we’ll meet all new people and we’ll get to see everyone more.” We haven’t yet told him that Mama and Papa will not be coming, which gives his words a bitter ring.</p><p>“Good, I’m glad,” I mutter as I go back to my beef.</p><p>“We should go swimming tomorrow, if the weather is still like this,” Anastasia says with a glint in her eyes.</p><p>“Oh yes! And can I join in?”</p><p>It takes me a moment to realise that Alexei is looking to me for permission. “Um...I don’t know if that would be such a brilliant idea, you know-”</p><p>“Yes I know, I’m <em> ill</em>, I can’t do <em> anything </em>.” He drops his fork to his plate and it makes such a loud sound that I almost drop mine. Across the table, Anastasia looks as taken aback as I do. Little though his protest may be, I can’t remember the last time he actually complained about his haemophilia.</p><p>“Alexei,” she begins, only to be interrupted as well.</p><p>“Oh I don’t want to hear it, none of you get it. Not even you Nastya. You say you do but you don’t, you can’t.” Neither of us knows what to do, but we are saved from having to do anything at all because he suddenly gets up and storms away, footsteps echoing into the night.</p><p>“We should pray,” I say, “so we all will be soothed in the morning.” I think that this is what Tatiana or Mama would say. And as I fall asleep later, it is of them that I dream.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Wow, I think this is the longest one yet! While I do know the outline of what I want to happen, I'm not sure whether it's moving too slow or too fast or anything so please let me know what you think of the pacing so far.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When we received the invitation to Irina’s ball, there was no complaint but that about what we would wear. Of course, we had brought nothing suitable for such a thing and though Irina claimed the ball was to be a more informal  ‘last hurrah,’ informal can mean a great many things to aristocrats. It felt silly at first, to be so fussed about dresses and jewels at a time like this, but I think we were all very glad for the distraction. I know that I was more than I should like to say. In the end it was decided that we would wear our high collared dresses of white tulle, which Tatiana was more than happy to add further embroidery to as Shura had sentenced her to bed for a few days. Anastasia and I all but tore apart our rooms, searching for anything that might do as sashes or headscarves. And now, all of a sudden, we are there.</p><p>We are either the first or last to arrive as I can see no other motors on the drive, and there is nobody save for the doorman and Felix in the entrance hall.</p><p>“Is this what the cadets are wearing now?” Olga calls to him. “Rather showy for my tastes but perhaps these revolutionaries have had a change of heart.”</p><p>Despite this, he smiles brightly as he kisses her hand. “And Tatiana Nikolaevna, I understand that you are well now? Deafness sorted and all that?” He asks.</p><p>“I have been cautioned against dancing,” she says simply and with a disapproving expression, then looks around. “Where is Irina?”</p><p>Felix links his arm through hers and she visibly stiffens. “Right this way,” he says cheerfully. “There isn’t as great a turnout as we’d hoped but that leaves more wine for the rest of us, does it not?” Olga smiles politely, but once Felix and Tanya have moved ahead she rolls her eyes to us. I know that I should be glad at how much she has improved from whatever was wrong since that day at the beach, but something still picks at my brain; just as it did when we left Tsarskoe Selo. I try to shake the feeling away, but only succeed in getting an odd look from Anastasia.</p><p>Contrary to Felix’s description, we enter the ballroom and find it to be a flurry of activity that spills out onto the terrace beyond. The only thing that I can compare it to is Olga’s sixteenth birthday ball, but I was only twelve then and didn’t soak it up as much as I now see I should have. There is an entire band of Tatar musicians at one end, and both the ballroom and terrace are positively filled with dancers who shimmer against the yellow electric light and general red glow put out by the walls.</p><p>Suddenly, Felix stops and releases Tatiana, turning his attentions to me. “I have just remembered, you are eighteen now are you not Maria?”</p><p>“I will be,” I say, already dreading whatever he is going to ask next.</p><p>His deep blue eyes light up. “And yet, you have had no real ball of your own.”</p><p>“Well, act-”</p><p>“Come! You must do me the honour of your first dance. I shall have them play a waltz so that you are not overwhelmed by an écossaise or something similarly demanding.” He is gone and one with the crowd before I can stop him, and I feel my cheeks turning pink at the mere idea of dancing a waltz of all things with Felix Yusupov. Mama would certainly not approve.</p><p>“He is an evil man, Mashenka, do not do it.” Tatiana stares at me intently as she speaks, but I hear Anastasia giggle quietly behind me.</p><p>“I don’t know that I have the choice,” I reply, “And since when have <em> you </em>been a Felix supporter?” I turn to look at Anastasia who clasps her gloved hands behind her back and smiles.</p><p>“Since he has taken it into his head to make you dance a <em> waltz </em>.”</p><p>“You will be the next he asks!”</p><p>“He’ll have to catch me first!”</p><p>“Enough of that please,” Tanya scolds. “We are getting looks. And <em> where </em> is Irina?” She begins to wander out to the terrace in search of our cousin, and once we notice Felix beginning to make his way back to us, Anastasia hurries away too.</p><p>“Coward,” Olga says under her breath, then picks up a glass of something sparkling from a passing servant.</p><p>Felix arrives just as the mazurka finishes and takes notice of Olga’s drink before he can ask me to dance. “Fallen from the divine plane?” He asks with a grin.</p><p>“When one attends a ball with a murderer, certain allowances must be made.”</p><p>Suddenly understanding, I turn to ask, “Is that <em> alcohol </em>?” Unfortunately, Felix drags me away before I get an answer.</p><p>“That would be charming were it not for your most righteous Mama,” he says with a tone of venom that even I can detect. Then, taking my gloved hand as the strings begin the waltz from <em> Evgeni Onegin</em>, “I’m certain that you can manage this, no?”</p><p>I might have laughed at the song otherwise, if they wish to avoid anything by the Central Powers then they might have picked something better, but I am suddenly very aware of everything. People are still looking at us, <em> glaring </em>actually, desperate to sneer at one of the daughters of the man who cost them their splendour. Well, they seem to have enough among them still. Obscene diamonds and rubies pour over the chests and arms of women who look as though a fair gust might knock them and their ornaments to the ground. <em>Less is more</em>, Mama likes to say. And I am beginning to see what she means. </p><p>I am caught off guard when the dance proper begins, and Felix tries to right me by tugging sharply on my wrist which only causes me pain and a slight stumble. “You are not the perfect follower, are you?” He muses, and I feel myself turning redder by the second.</p><p>I try to remind myself that I cannot be nearly as clumsy as Anastasia likes to say I am, if I were then I would not be asked to dance so much with the officers on the Standart, but then I remember that we are not likely to ever see them or our beloved yacht again and a most sickening feeling rises through me as that and a thousand more realisations crash down at once. “I’m sorry,” I tell him as I stop turning, my voice barely a whisper. I try to go back to Olga but find that his grip on my wrist has not loosened. I give him a quizzical look and he responds in kind.</p><p>“Come, I’m only teasing.”</p><p>My eyes begin to sting as tears come to the surface. I’m <em> sick </em> of crying.“No, I know, I-I don’t want to dance, I don’t...sorry,” I manage to get out before I am overtaken entirely and hurry away in the direction of a blur that I hope to be a door onto the terrace. Having navigated my way through several pairs of grumbling dancers, I all but collapse onto the iron handrail of the steps into the garden. I sob alone for an uncertain amount of time, my body reduced to shaking when I eventually run out of tears. By now I have entirely fallen to the steps, not caring when my dress drags through dust and dirt and I am crawled across by a few stray ants.</p><p>Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder and I turn quickly to see Tatiana sitting down beside me while Irina does the same two steps down. Her gown is one of emerald velvet and I am distracted briefly by the thought that it is exactly the sort of dress I should like to have, but Mama would never allow. “What is this Maria?” Irina asks tenderly, “I hope this is not my husband’s doing, he does have a particular talent for making fun.”</p><p>“No, no,” I reply, hurriedly wiping my eyes. “I just...I just want Papa and Mama and for everything to be as it was! Why can it not be as it was? What have we done?”</p><p>Tatiana wraps her arm around me and draws me close. “We have done nothing, darling, but God will test us as he sees fit.”</p><p>“If God truly loves us all then he would not <em> test </em>us so harshly,” I say, voice rising in volume more than I had intended.</p><p>Tanya glances down at Irina who gives a strange sort of smile, almost apologetic but with something else diluting it. “When I was suffering and I locked myself away, I did an awful lot of thinking,” she begins, tracing her thumb in circles around my shoulder in what I recognise as one of Olga’s calming strategies. “I wondered whether I had not loved God enough and so he had decided to punish me, and then I thought that a loving God would not punish someone before they had lived their lives completely. So...I lost faith, for a while. But then I got my hearing back, and I see now that I was foolish. I was not being punished, I was being <em> tested </em>. And I failed. And I must try to do better, as we all must and as I’m certain we all will.” Her speech sounds so much like something Mama would tell us that for a moment I am unsure of what to say. In the end, I simply nod. </p><p>She must be right, I decide. Things happen because God wills it and we must do whatever we can to withstand it. If that were not true, I am certain that the chaos of it all would drive me mad.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The ball ends at nearly two o’clock in the morning, but we are all giddy enough to spend the drive home laughing and shouting about every detail. After the initial upset, I had such a splendid time that by the end of the night it had almost slipped my mind entirely.</p><p>As we enter the palace, still giggling at the sheer joy of it all, we are greeted by a much more solemn scene. Monsieur Gilliard paces the entrance hall with a slip of paper in his fingers. When we see him, our smiles stop abruptly. “This came for you nearly an hour ago, but we did not wish to spoil your fun by fetching you back.”</p><p>He holds the paper out to us and Tatiana takes it quickly, eyes darkening like storm clouds. “Pack for ten o’clock morning, train from Yalta half past. A. Kerensky,” she reads.</p><p>“That is all the notice we get?” Olga asks in disbelief, snatching the telegram to read for herself.</p><p>Monsieur Gilliard nods. “I am afraid so.”</p><p>“I don’t believe it,” I say and glance around to see that Anastasia is similarly bewildered.</p><p>“Miss Tegleva has already gone to bed but suggested that you should all pack before sleeping and will therefore avoid any chance of running behind in the morning,” he says. We stare at him and for a moment it seems as though he will say something more, his dark moustache shivering when he opens his mouth, but he turns just as quickly and leaves us to contemplate alone.</p><p>Tatiana seems to have absorbed the news much faster than the rest of us and begins ordering us up to our rooms. Though we are silent as ghosts and walk swiftly through the corridors, there is a ringing in my head that seems to slow time along with my own thoughts.</p><p><em> Leaving</em>.</p><p>I knew it would happen eventually, of course I did, but it had seemed such a far off thing then. I’d thought that at least a few days might separate our ‘order’ and our departure so that we would have the time to say goodbye to our home and our friends. Can this new government not understand that we are human? That our lives have been ripped apart and thrown back together in a jumble of pieces that not even our tremendously bright Olga can make sense of? Or do they simply not care?</p><p>When we reach our rooms, we find that our suitcases are already sitting on our beds. I know it must have been Shura trying to help but they appear taunting in my eyes.</p><p>With the ball all but forgotten, the next fifteen minutes at least is spent with the four of us crammed into the wardrobe we share, trying desperately to separate out what belongs to who without knocking a sister into a wall or stepping on another’s foot. Once that is accomplished with relative accuracy, we turn to our other rooms and begin rifling through various ornaments and other such things that we may wish to take with us.</p><p>I soon discover that I haven’t the room in my suitcase for nearly half of my things and try in vain to make my sisters give me some of their precious space; but they are in exactly the same predicament. Olga shouts in frustration from where she kneels against an armchair in our sitting room, slamming her suitcase shut as she does so.</p><p>“What?” Anastasia calls from the other side of the room.</p><p>“I have Mama’s ikons but I cannot fit them all.”</p><p>I assess my own suitcase and gingerly remove some of the enamel-framed pictures I’ve added on top of my clothes. “If I take these out I will have room, I think,” I tell her. To my surprise, she scowls.</p><p>“Don’t be silly Masha, take what <em> you </em> want. Mama shall simply have to do without.”</p><p>“But-”</p><p>“I mean it!”</p><p>I shrink back at the volume of her voice and do not need to be told twice. </p><p>Tatiana points at the stack of ikons by Olga, a movement I only notice because her gold bracelet-a copy of Mama’s that we all have and physically cannot remove-catches the light sharply. “Be sure to take the Our Lady of Tsarskoe Selo from their bedroom,” she says, “I have ours and I think Nastya has the little pair’s.”</p><p>Anastasia makes a face at me when she calls us that, she hates to be called ‘little’ anything and has always had an all-consuming preoccupation with her height.</p><p>“I have that,” I correct, and Tatiana smiles approvingly.</p><p>After another minute or so of increasingly frantic packing and repacking, Anastasia throws herself to the carpet with an air of drama that only she could exhibit. “I am <em> exhausted </em>,” she whines.</p><p>“We all are!” Olga snaps, swatting at her with an embroidered white cloth, making Nastya bark a laugh as she grabs it and swats her back.</p><p>Tatiana towers over them with her hands on her thin waist. “If you wish to sleep, this is not helping us go faster.”</p><p>“You are not in charge of me!” Nastya declares, her giddiness from earlier having seemingly returned despite the awful task at hand.</p><p>I allow myself a moment of distraction to watch the three of them interact. It’s as though nothing has happened at all, as though tomorrow we will go to Tsarskoe and have our lessons and walk the park and see aunt Olga on Saturdays for tea. Closing my eyes, I imagine it is so. How bearable it all becomes then. How <em> free. </em> I don’t know that we will ever be so free again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm actually quite proud of this chapter, not sure exactly why though! I hope the part about god didn't come across as too preachy, but I remember reading a few things about how the girls answered their own questions about religion and thought it would be important to include a bit more of that as their beliefs were very central in their lives.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That night, I barely sleep for more than an hour put together. First I am too cold, then too hot, then I’m crying again, and then I am too worried about not sleeping. Before I know it, we are dragging our suitcases out to the motors and saying painful goodbyes to the few members of staff that remain. We have nothing to give them as thanks which Tatiana had been particularly panicked over as Easter is only two weeks away, but they don’t seem to mind as much as she does.</p><p>Outside, it’s pleasantly cool, just the sort of weather that Papa would insist we take advantage of for a hike in the mountains. That thought only makes me want to cry more. As we reach the end of the line of staff we have to thank and wish well, Maxim steps forward carrying something wrapped in a piece of nearly threadbare red cloth. He glances between us all and then holds the object out to me. “I don’t know that you will remember,” he begins, “but you asked a few years ago about my parents and I told you that they make matryoshka dolls.”</p><p>“Oh yes!” I exclaim, “Your Papa carves them and your Mama paints them, yes?”</p><p>He seems pleasantly surprised that I remember and nods enthusiastically. “Well, they have of course heard what is happening to your family and they were deeply sorry about it, and made this set as a present for you all and Their Majesties. As a thank you for my employment.” I take the dolls and peel back the cloth to reveal that the outer doll is painted flawlessly as Papa. I hear my sisters all gasp and thank him again, in response to which he turns as red as his cloth.</p><p>“The others are you and the Empress,” he mutters as Anastasia takes them carefully from me to admire.</p><p>“It really was awfully kind of your parents,” I tell him, desperately trying to think of something to give him in return. Then I remember the handkerchief stuffed into my tiny skirt pocket and offer it to him. “I know it’s rather stupid, but it has my monogram on the corner, see, so perhaps it will fetch something if you sell it.”</p><p>He takes it tentatively, as though afraid I might snatch it back. “We could never sell such a thing, knowing it was yours will be more than enough for my parents.”</p><p>Before I can reply, I hear Shura call my name and I turn to see that everyone else has wandered off to the motors.</p><p>“Thank you...not just for the dolls but for your work here too. It must be such a difficult thing for you to lose your job so suddenly.”</p><p>He frowns. “Is it not harder for you? To lose, well, everything?”</p><p>“Oh, I’ll be fine. I have my family. Or most of it.” I try to give a quick smile, but it clearly doesn’t set him at ease.</p><p>Shura calls my name again in a much more impatient tone.</p><p>“I suppose I’d better go,” I say.</p><p>“Yes. I suppose you had.”</p><p>We give each other an awkward half-nod as I walk away. I watch his unwavering smile as Anastasia shifts so that I can sit next to her and conclude that it is one of genuine joy. Not that I’m leaving, but that I was here at all. </p><p>Then another footman, one of the Vladimirs I think, taps Maxim on the shoulder. He turns to respond, but we’re already driving away and I can no longer see his face.</p><p>The Palace itself falls away, white walls giving way to cypresses and sky until I see no more of it at all. And then I understand that this is really it. This is all real and not some elaborate dream that my mind has made up to punish itself for something.</p><p>I feel Alexei’s hand grip mine from across the seats. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “about the other night. I shouldn’t have been so ungrateful.”</p><p>I struggle to remember what he’s referring to, but when my mind lands on it I let out a heavy sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous Alyosha, it’s quite behind us now. <em> Literally </em>.”</p><p>Tatiana looks about as wretched as I feel, pale head resting on the edge of her door. “We didn’t even have the chance to tell Grandmama that we’re leaving.”</p><p>“She’ll know by now,” Anastasia says, “She knows positively everything.”</p><p>“Why is she not coming with us?” I ask nobody in particular. “She did grow up in Denmark.”</p><p>“I suppose she isn’t a political threat,” Tanya says with a touch of strained humour.</p><p>“And what will we do? Kill them all in their sleep?” Alexei throws himself back in his seat as Tatiana gives him a brief scolding for saying such a terrible thing, but from the corner of my eye, I see Nastya give him an approving wink.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Yalta appears to be quite empty when we arrive with only the occasional pedestrian to give us a curious look as we pass. We are not at all dressed as they would imagine the Grand Duchesses would be, and so we evade public notice once more. There are, however, several men in uniform waiting on the steps of the station for us. I don’t recognise any of them, and they certainly don’t act like soldiers ought to. They’re laughing and shoving each other around: one even has a cigarette hanging lazily from the corner of his mouth. When they see us, they begin to whisper and grin.</p><p>As she climbs out, Tatiana gives them a rather nasty look which appears to briefly shut them up but then causes them to laugh louder.</p><p>Monsieur Gilliard distributes our suitcases, as always refusing to allow Alexei to carry his own. I grip the leather handle of mine tightly. The soldiers have begun to walk towards us and I quickly turn to Anastasia. “Do you still have the dolls?”</p><p>She nods, showing me how she has tucked the package safely away in her reddish-pink cardigan.</p><p>“Don’t let them see, just in case.”</p><p>She mumbles something in agreement and allows Olga to step in front of her.</p><p>One of the soldiers-the one with the cigarette- takes out a piece of paper and a pencil and gestures for Shura to step forward. “You are Alexandra Alexandrovna?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He nods and marks something down. “And you are the Swiss then?” Monsieur Gilliard is clearly displeased with this label but nods stiffly nonetheless.</p><p>The soldier begins rattling through the rest of our names without issue...until he reaches me. Once I identify myself, another of them steps forward and whispers something in his friend’s ear which makes them both laugh. I feel myself redden and avert my eyes to the thin heels of Olga’s shoes in the hopes that I might calm myself down-with little success.</p><p>After this, the others are quickly accounted for and the five of them begin herding us into the station. The fact that they all have rifles slung over their shoulders unnerves me given that they seem the type that would quickly reach for them should any small thing go awry, but I try my best to ignore them.</p><p>We emerge onto the familiar open platform and find not our own train, but an obviously much older one with large windows and chipping green paint. Inside, things are not much better. The carriage is one long room made up of bare wooden benches on either side of a much-walked aisle. I am relieved to see that at least there are curtains to insulate against the cold when we reach the north, but this brief happiness vanishes when the soldiers begin pulling them down one by one.</p><p>“You are to remain on this end of the car,” the tallest of the five tells us, “and you may not open the blinds unless one of us gives you permission. At least two of us will remain with you at all times. Do you understand?”</p><p>Anastasia raises a hand. “Where are the bathrooms?”</p><p>“There is a toilet in the next car, but you must be accompanied if you wish to use it.”</p><p>Olga scoffs. “I wasn’t aware that we were prisoners.”</p><p>He shrugs and assures us that these measures are all for our own safety. I don’t imagine that any of us feel particularly reassured.</p><p>Once they’ve all wandered down to the other end of the car, we begin setting our own area up spanning two not-quite compartments across the aisle. Shura comes up with the idea of hanging a wide blanket above one of the benches to provide us with at least a small amount of privacy. The soldier who whispered about me at the station argues with her but surprisingly relents after we agree to only sit there when sleeping or changing clothes. It is only after I’ve put away everything we don’t need in our suitcases again that I realise we still haven’t moved out of Yalta.</p><p>Two of the soldiers, the whispering one-as I’ve come to call him-and the one with no particular identifier, are sitting at the very opposite end from us throwing dice for what I assume to be some sort of arithmetic game. Neither of them looks up as I approach.</p><p>“What, are you deaf?” The tall one asks, “go back to your area.”</p><p>I cock my head to the side slightly, attempting to figure out exactly what it is they’re playing. “I only came to ask why we haven’t set off yet.”</p><p>The other one smiles and throws all five of the dice. “Lev’s probably struck up a friendship with the driver...Which one are you again?”</p><p>“Maria Nikolaevna,” I say, leaning over the bench slightly to get a better view. “Will you tell me what game that is?”</p><p>At last, he looks at me. I decide that he isn’t so bad looking and clearly much younger than his colleagues, but is in dire need of a haircut. “It’s just something we made up. You have to try and get a sequence up to five but you get points for other combinations,” he says after considering me for a moment. “Why, do you want a go?”</p><p>“<em> Anton</em>,” the tall one hisses, and Anton holds his hands up in mock surrender.</p><p>“Perhaps another time,” I say, “but I do hope you enjoy your game.” As I walk back, I hear the tall one make a comment about my accent followed by the most horrendous laugh that has ever cursed my ears.</p><p>I take a seat opposite Monsieur Gilliard and Alexei just in time to avoid being knocked over by the sudden lurch of the train beginning its journey. A small crack of sunlight escapes from under the curtain and I hold my hand in it, enjoying the romantic idea of catching as much of the Crimean sun as I can. </p><p>This is all simply a new adventure, I tell myself. Even if the world around me refuses to be positive I can always make myself so. I <em> will </em> always make myself so, from now until this awful business is done with.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi all!<br/>First, thanks for reading this. I'm really enjoying writing it. Second, sorry for the impromptu hiatus, I just kind of let life get on top of me and had to dig myself out!<br/>I'm also aware the formatting of chapters is all over the place so I plan to go back and fix that over the next few days.<br/>And I wanted to say that I haven't forgotten about some smaller moments and conversations earlier on, you'll just have to look out for what comes next ;)<br/>Oh and last thing I promise: I've been thinking about starting another Romanov fic just because I like having two projects going at once so I don't get burnt out on either so if there are any ideas you like or differences in 'the timeline' that you'd like to read about then please let me know!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi, remember me?!<br/>Anyway, thanks for reading etc, see the end notes for more detail.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I hiss through gritted teeth as a sudden disturbance on the track sends the back of my head into the edge of the bench for what must be the third time at least. It was Anastasia’s idea to play cards on the floor-a way of getting privacy without also getting into trouble-but I am beginning to regret agreeing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maria, can we be quieter please?” Shura nods towards Alexei who is doing his best to get to sleep despite the issues caused by being thrown against solid wood every twenty seconds. Next to him, Monsieur Gilliard is snoring away without a care in the world while Olga and Tatiana have made the four of us a bed on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, I know,” I whisper back. She has been harsher than usual the past few days, I imagine that she must be positively exhausted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Four kings!” Anastasia declares triumphantly, flicking up her forty point counter and winning her the game. She is given a similar volume warning but is quite happy to assert her victory through the art of mime. I smile when she falls to her back, arms raised and blue eyes sparkling. “Shall I thrash you again at Bezique or would you like to lose at something else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>is some sleep,” I say as I stand and stretch. She pouts, though is forced to relent after failing to suppress a yawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I go to cross to our newly designated sleeping area until I feel eyes on me and stop in my tracks. Peering down the car I see Anton holding a die aloft with raised eyebrows. An invitation. I glance back at Anastasia who is dutifully packing away our game and decide that she wouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> mind such a small betrayal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sit down rather primly across from him while he moves a flickering gas lamp from the floor to sit between us. On the other side of the aisle, Anton’s supposed companion is sprawled over the entire length of the bench with an empty bottle of something foul on his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So...Maria?” He asks. I would have thought that he’d have learned our names and faces when he was given this assignment, but I nod and give him a patient smile. “Right,” he continues, “just roll these and see what you get.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have much family?” I ask as I pick up all five of the well-worn dice. He shrugs, but gives no real answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to roll quietly despite the obvious clatter and inwardly cringe at the prospect of Shura noticing where I’ve gone. Thankfully, however, our blanket screen blocks us from view and the noise does not alert her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’ve got a four and a five which are worth two and three ones which are worth as much,” he tells me, pointing to each in turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I frown. “Why are they worth more than the higher numbers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because they all match and the four and five are only a sequence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles and throws his arms open. “I offered you a game, I never said it would be a good one.” I smile back and watch him take his turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a few minutes we go back and forth like this. I try to ask after his friends or at least where he lived before he became a soldier, but he gives none of it up. Then he says something that makes me freeze mid-roll.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d say you’ve been rather lucky in life, you’re even quite good looking which is more than can be said for most of your relatives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pardon you,” I say quickly, but his demeanour doesn’t change a bit. In fact, he inches closer to me, a move made all the more concerning by his replacing the lamp by his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mashenka,” he whispers, and I instinctively flinch away. Not even my sisters call me by such a familiar name. “You don’t expect me to believe that you came over here to play some stupid game?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anton rolls his dark eyes, and before I can do anything he grabs the collar of my blouse and throws me down savagely onto the bench. Instinctively, I elbow him hard in the nose which stuns him enough for me to be able to scramble away and onto the floor. For a few seconds, he is transfixed by the blood trickling slowly from his nose. Then he grows angry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Romanov whore!” He shouts and dives at me. Desperately, I try to kick him away but he soon catches hold of my boots and begins to pull me towards him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop now,” I gasp, thrashing wildly, “and this will be forgotten!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sharp laugh, he transfers his grip to my collar again and reaches beneath the bench behind him for something that glints when it catches the lamp-light. His rifle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fear consumes me. I begin scratching at his face and neck, not slowing my frenzy until I feel torn skin beneath my fingernails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get away from her!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pause long enough to glimpse Anastasia and Shura charging towards us with the others not far behind. Anton too lets his concentration wane for a moment which is enough for me to free myself and begin struggling to my feet. It doesn’t last long, however, because it seems that within the second he has pulled me down again by the hem of my skirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I land on my wrist and cry out in pain-which matters nothing when the gunshot echoes around my skull. Nothing else hurts, though, and I begin to think that he has missed until I hear a chorus of horrified screams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To my left is Alexei, flat on his back and wheezing as though his lungs are utterly incapable of drawing in air. The real problem is the bubbling red hole in his throat. My mind doesn’t process the gravity of the scene before me until Anastasia collapses by his head, sobbing desperately for Tatiana to do something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of us can do anything but watch.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I didn't intend for chapter ten to take this long, but life just kind of happens. I did have a much darker original draft of this and scrapped it because I thought would probably be a little too much misery for one chapter (if you noticed the tags/warnings being messed with this was why). I'd also intended for it to be as long as the other chapters but decided that I might as well upload what I've got and start semi-fresh with chapter eleven.<br/>&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello again! Before you read, I just wanted to say that I didn't intend for my little break to be quite this long but such is life...heh.<br/>And yes this chapter is way shorter than the others but fret not, I just wanted to get something out as soon as possible and work has already begun on twelve. We're in the home stretch now! (Though I've already got some plans for other Romanov fics that will be both longer and better quality. Think of White Lilacs as a sort of practice run)<br/>Now feast!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“What will we tell Kerensky?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The truth, I suppose. Such a thing can hardly be brushed away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes but think what will happen to Anton!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has killed a boy, Ivan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>Romanov</span>
  </em>
  <span> boy. And one who has always been sickly enough that he might drop dead at any moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...I cannot condone it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to. Simply nod when asked or else keep quiet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would seem that they have decided on their excuse then. Though I can’t imagine it would stand up under any sort of scrutiny, I am at least glad that they have stopped talking about him. Especially when they won’t even use Alexei’s name. To do so would humanise him, and then they might begin to feel remorse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of us has slept. Tatiana and Anastasia have spent the night sobbing together while Olga and I tried our best to suppress our own sorrow and calm them a little. Shura has been endlessly flitting between us and Monsieur Gilliard who perhaps has taken it the worst of all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He somehow imagines it was his fault, I think. But he was not there. He was not less than an arm’s length away from the man levelling a rifle at his brother. He did not put trust in one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maria, dear, you will bite your nails to nothing.” Shura stands over me, pale and unsteady on her feet. I listen to her out of pity more than anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are they doing with him?” I whisper. I don’t think I could bear to see for myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “They have moved Alexei to another car, beyond that I do not know. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, God</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She turns away from me quickly, but her shoulders tremble and she clasps a hand to her mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look down at my lap where my left wrist lies aching dully. I briefly worry that I cannot hold a paintbrush, and then I scream at myself for having such an unbelievably selfish thought. And then, for the first time since last night, I allow myself to cry.</span>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Deep golden light is creeping out from beneath the curtains when the train begins to slow. Our guards-the abhorrent criminals-are clearly nervous. They have taken to pacing the length of the train over and over again in an endless parade of heavy footsteps. Can they not give us </span>
  <em>
    <span>ten minutes’</span>
  </em>
  <span> peace?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We began repacking after lunch during which nobody ate or said a thing. Monsieur Gilliard has not let go of Alexei’s suitcase since, running his thumb along the shallow fingerprints left in the soft leather of the handle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tsarskoe Selo,” a deep voice announces behind me. I glance across at Shura who takes Anastasia’s hand and nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you be telling the boy’s parents what has happened or am I to do it?” She asks harshly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are to say that there was an accident and that he bled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scoffs. “I shall say nothing of the sort.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps you would like to lose another of your charges, then,” he says, and I feel his eyes on the back of my head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how will you cover that up? Hm? Because I do not believe that Alexei Nikolaevich’s ailment was catching.” He hesitates and I can almost imagine the flicker of panic crossing his face before another voice joins him and Anastasia begins to turn red with fury.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tegleva will remain separate then. The Swiss too.” A new voice. Anton.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My fingers tighten around my own suitcase as they argue, but I listen to none of it. My mind is overcome with the image of Alexei grasping helplessly at his own bleeding throat. If only I were not so helpless, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>utterly pathetic</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If only I could make myself do something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a crack as my knuckles collide with bone and come away speckled with blood. I have struck his nose so hard that it has become crooked and he staggers into his friend with the strength of it. “That is the least you deserve,” I hiss. They all seem too stunned to do much of anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel a hand take my bloodied one and turn to see Tatiana reaching to clean it with a crisp, white handkerchief. “Keep it in your pocket,” she says quietly. “If your knuckles begin to bruise then Mama will have a fit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. Mama.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I’d nearly forgotten entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long will we be waiting, then?” Shura asks, cutting through the strange atmosphere instantly. The other guard whispers something to Anton and sends him away with a handkerchief of his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Until the bitches are sent back.” He gestures for us to follow him, and although every bone in my body resists it I know that we must go. For Mama and Papa if not ourselves.</span>
</p>
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